Paul Gets A Job
by Forgotten Cat
Summary: Paul gets a job... he just needs the equipment for it.


_Boilerplate: The Twilight universe belongs to Stephenie Meyer – I'm just playing in it. I don't own anything except my laptop computer._

_Takes place after "The Mouse and the Lion."_

_I made up everything about Paul's family since I couldn't find anything about him._

_I hope you enjoy!_

***

An Xbox—that is what Paul was going to buy with the money. And whatever was left would go towards gas and maybe a handle of the nice whiskey – not the cheap stuff his mom kept around.

"So, what do you say Paul? I'd usually ask Artie but—" But Artie had shipped off to Iraq three months ago, which means that he was unable to accept the offer of the job so graciously held out by Junior Dickey.

"Sure, sure. I'll do it," said Paul, nodding his head even though Junior wouldn't be able to see the motion on the other end of the phone.

"Alright, then. Bring your fishing gear and meet us at 5:45 sharp in front of the General Store. The white folk should show up around 6."

"I'll be there," Paul affirmed. He would be almost anywhere for the promise of $350.

"Alright, then." Junior hung up the phone.

Paul stood in the kitchen, phone in hand, dreaming of $350.

Artie was 5 years older and, as their father had liked to remind them, much more responsible. Paul had the hot head and Artie, the even temper. What this meant in practice was that Artie knew every single trick to get Paul fired up about something and he would stand by laughing as Paul got himself into deep shit by running his mouth off. But Paul didn't mind too much, he'd get into trouble no matter who provoked him and he could even sometimes see the humor in the situation. Sometimes.

When they were younger, the two boys and their dad had spent hours and hours hunting and fishing, for food and for fun. And when their dad had died a few years ago driving home drunk from Mill Creek, Artie had inherited the fishing gear and Paul got the good rifle.

And unless Artie somehow managed to teleport from Falluja to La Push within the next 18 hours, the fishing gear was Paul's to use, as were the horde of German tourists looking for an 'authentic' Indian experience. And the $350.

Now he just had to find where Artie had hidden it.

Three hours and many, many curse words later, he gave up and called his mom at work, even though she had made him promise—on pain of death—never to do so unless it was a real emergency.

"Paul, you had better either have it coming out both ends or your arms are falling off or something because the manager is pissed off at me already—I just had a table dine and dash. Goddamn college kids."

"Hey, mom, I just wanted to know—"

"If the next words out of your mouth aren't 'the way to the hospital' I'm going to reach through the phone and send you there." Like her younger son, Paul's mother had a notoriously short temper.

"It's dad's fishing stuff. I can't find it and I can earn $350." The words came out in a rush before she could threaten him with bodily harm again.

"Oh, for God's sake! I think Artie lent it to Sammy before he shipped out—if that's all I'm hanging up." The line went dead but Paul knew she wouldn't stay mad for long. They were alike in that way, too.

A quick call to Emily confirmed that 'Sammy' did, indeed, have the fishing gear and Paul jumped in his car to go pick it up.

The afternoon was fading into evening and the setting sun gave a rosy glow to the majestic trees and the ratty houses alike. If there one thing Paul didn't understand about Artie, it was his desire to leave La Push. Why would you want to leave when everybody you know is right here? What did the rest of the world have to offer that you couldn't find somewhere on the rez? Sure, maybe one day he would take a trip to Disneyland or something in California but, for now, he was happy enough.

Paul turned off onto the road that led towards Sam's house and caught sight of a sullen figure walking towards him and groaned inwardly. Only one person in La Push could walk as if the very ground angered her by existing.

He slowed and rolled down the window. "What up, bitch?" he called out.

Leah glared at him. "S'up, asshole." She blew cigarette smoke in his general direction.

"I'd offer you a ride but I just got the car de-bitchified." Yes, it was lame, but all he could come up as half his brain was occupied in ogling the outline of Leah's breasts under her thin t-shirt. She had given up wearing a bra months ago—around the same time she shaved off her hair in what Paul referred to as the 'dykerella.'

"I didn't know they gave driver's licenses to retards now. How nice for you. I bet your mom is real proud." Leah crossed her arms over her chest and smirked at him.

"Whatever. You're just jealous of my sweet ride." He dropped his gaze to her full hips and the slight roll of delicious flesh at her stomach. "You know you want a piece of this action."

"Ah—the old single entendre. Nice." She rolled her eyes at him. "This little bitchy is going to phase as soon as she finishes her cigarette so I'll pass on the offer."

"You'll come crawling for it one day," Paul sighed. "Nobody can resist The Paul forever."

Leah just laughed and turned to keep walking.

"Wait!" Paul called. "Where you just over at Sam's? Are they there?"

Leah turned back and gave him a dark look—darker than usual. "Yeah, Emily's there," she spit out.

"God, Leah, could you just get over your drama for like two seconds and act like a normal person?"

She turned back and flipped him her middle finger as she walked off.

Paul rolled up his window and sped up. Leah might be hot but every time he thought it might be worth trying to tap that, she'd pull out the mega-bitch card. It was almost like she liked being alone in her misery. Thankfully, Paul had more important things to worry about than ass—like money.

He pulled up into Sam's driveway and got out of the car. Delicious food smells wafted down towards him. Emily was always cooking something. She didn't look like she ate any of it, though. Girl was skinny and she'd been cute before Sam had clawed her face. Paul liked her well enough, though, even if she was kind of quiet.

"Hey!" called Paul, as he pushed open the front door. "Emily? Sam?"

"Back here," came a voice from the kitchen. "I'm back here."

Emily was standing with her back towards him. She was kneading bread dough. With a final smack, she flipped it back into the bowl and covered it with a worn dishtowel.

Paul shifted uncomfortably in the silence. "So—the fishing stuff?" he said, finally.

She turned around and Paul saw that her face was streaked with tears and her eyes were red. She sniffled. "I think it's in the bedroom closet."

"Oh, cool," said Paul. Neither of them moved. "Do you want me to go get it?" he asked.

"No, I can do it." Emily dabbed at her eyes with a corner of her apron and looked at him.

"Do you want me to wait here?" he asked, confused. Crying ladies were not his specialty and the sooner he was out of here, the better.

"If you want," said Emily, angrily washing the bread dough off her hands.

"I'll just wait in the living room," said Paul, backing out slowly but before he could escape, Emily exploded.

"Why can't Leah just be nice?" burst out Emily in a wavery voice.

"I don't know," said Paul, "I guess she's just like that." He tried to keep moving towards the crying-lady-free zone of the living room but Emily wasn't done.

"But it wasn't my fault! Can't she just accept that?"

Paul sighed. If there was anything he hated as much as he wanted that Xbox, it was imprinting and all talk surrounding imprinting. He hated the idea that biology would determine his future and, even more, he hated that he would be tied to _one woman_ for the rest of his life. It didn't make sense. If the whole idea was supposed to be that the wolf genes wanted to be spread around, shouldn't he be 'imprinting' on as many ladies as possible?

"I don't know," he said again, "and I don't really care."

"You will care when you imprint," Emily snapped, her anger making her bolder than usual.

"That imprinting shit is bullshit—I'm not doing it," Paul said firmly.

"You can't decide that, Paul, and the sooner you and Leah accept it, the happier you'll be." Her eyes glistened with angry tears.

Paul's thin temper snapped. "When did this become about me? I just want the goddamn fishing gear."

Emily flung off her apron and pushed past him towards the living room. He followed her.

"Besides," he called after her. "_You_ aren't the one who imprinted. _You_ had a choice. _You_ didn't have to run off with Leah's boyfriend."

"He imprinted on _me._"

"And you let him."

"I can't control how he feels."

"So if a guy falls in love with you, you automatically have to love him back? You should at least own your choice. You chose to be with Sam even though you knew Leah would be hurt. You picked Sam anyways. Deal with it."

Emily stared at him, mouth open in shock at his words, before storming into the bedroom. After several minutes of angry banging, she emerged with an armful of fishing equipment.

"Here," she said, thrusting it into his arms. "Now, get out."

"Fine, I'm gone." Paul started towards the door but the memory of Leah flicking him off stopped him and he turned back to Emily. "You know, Leah might be a bitch but at least she's honest about it."

And he left her standing there.

After carefully stowing the gear in the trunk of the car, he started back towards home. What was with women and their stupid relationship drama? And Sam was almost as bad, getting those big cow-eyes and letting Leah run wild. If he had tried that stunt Leah pulled the other night—running into Forks and scaring some poor girl, Sam would have cut off his balls and eat them for breakfast.

Still, he was sorry to have missed a potential vampire hunt. He was just waiting for the day the Cullens crossed the line into La Push and Sam wasn't there to make him back down. He licked his lips at the thought of tearing into cold, hard, vampire flesh and crunching down on rotten bones.

The sun was setting behind him and the stars were coming out. Two dark shapes walking along turned into Quil and Embry, who must have been walking back from the Black's. Paul slowed down and rolled down his window.

"Hey, douchebags! Need a ride?"

"Yeah—Bella just went over to see Jake, so we've been banished." Embry explained.

"Goddamn women—always getting all worked up about love and shit." Paul commiserated. Jacob was almost as bad as Sam when it came to Bella.

"I don't know," said Quil, "I wouldn't mind if some chick got all worked up over me."

"Shotgun!" yelled Embry and clambered into the front seat.

Paul's anger evaporated. In the end, what did he care if Leah and Emily fought or didn't fight. He had a buttload of cash coming in and potentially hot German chicks to impress with his 'authentically' native ways tomorrow.

"You wouldn't even know what to do if some chick came on to you," laughed Paul.

"Uh, yeah I would," said Quil, indignantly, climbing into the back seat, "I've totally been practicing."

"With who?" asked Embry.

"Your momma," replied Quil.


End file.
